Kat’s Pause 

Not dead, and all that. Studying/resting/preparing for Christmas/spending time with Ning. Not writing, for which I deserve DEATH or maybe just STRESS. Tired tonight — Ning’s family had a Christmas party this evening. (I ate a cheeseburger — McDonalds ew ew ew — and a vodka cooler, both of which typically make me violently ill, and have felt healthier than ever. Stupid body. Maybe the Chinese food magically counteracted my indulgences.) Should be sleeping right now, in fact I think I will. Still need to buy my grandmother a Christmas present, ack. Still need to mail… certain others which require packaging to be purchased. I should really learn to drive.

Really tired today. This is surely in need of editing but the words blur when I look at them too hard.

She seemed healthier the next day, and Ico’s worries began to dissipate. He figured it was probably just a stomach virus. He discovered to his dismay that the illness seemed to have sapped her strength; she had never been hardy or possessed of his youthful vigour, but she was noticeably weaker in the following days. He held off on activities like climbing the lone tree – something he had always enjoyed more than her anyway – and instead sat against the wall with her, quietly conversing, and waited for her to return to normal.

To his frustration, the wait stretched on. If anything, she seemed to be growing feebler. Soon all she wanted to do was sit and talk. Once when she tried to join him in sitting on a tree branch, she didn’t make it onto the first limb before tripping and badly scraping her arm against the rough trunk, tearing the sleeve of her dress in the process. She dropped to her knees and began to tremble. Ico jumped down from his perch to comfort her. By now he was used to her reacting with fear whenever she dirtied her dress or hurt herself or did other things she knew would irk her mother, but she was especially anxious this time. Her mother would have to sew the ripped part, and the blood on the fabric from her wound would be difficult to get out. And lately her patience had been shorter than ever.

Before the break, Yorda confessed, she had left for home in high spirits after she and Ico parted with a quick hug, still tasting the unfamiliar phrase “Merry Christmas� on her lips. Upon arrival, she enthusiastically repeated it to her mother, and then quaked at the furious expression that crossed the woman’s features. Her mother demanded to know who had been filling her head with stupid ideas. She stammered that a boy she met had told her about Christmas and what fun it was. Immediately she was ordered up to her room without supper and ignored until the next day. She asked for something to eat and was slapped for her “insolence,� instead receiving a lecture on how she was becoming disrespectful and “wild.� Her mother threatened to punish her manners didn’t improve. Bewildered and already confined to her bedroom, Yorda could only imagine what consequences might follow. She kept fearfully silent all day despite her rumbling stomach. Later, she heard the sounds of her mother entertaining acquaintances downstairs and smelled lovely things cooking, things she was never allowed to eat. The stabbing hunger pains became too much and she started crying. Minutes later, her mother came into her room and shouted at the sobbing girl for embarrassing her. How dare she be so ungrateful after being cared for all her life? How could she cause her own poor mother so much trouble? Yorda tried to apologize, but her mother slammed the bedroom door behind her so hard that the wood cracked. She curled up on her bed – a mattress on the floor – and tried not to cry.

She woke up, weak and confused, some time later to her mother entering her room again. This time she bore a smile and a steaming mug, though her eyes were the same icy grey as before. Setting the cup down on the floor, she warned Yorda not to spill it, then turned and left.

Yorda rubbed her eyes and gawked at the cloudy brown liquid. She had smelled it earlier and knew it to be cider, but she had never expected to be offered some. She took a tentative sip and burned her tongue. It was delicious. When it had cooled enough to swallow, she gulped down every drop, then promptly fell asleep.

Since then, her mother had mostly ignored her, giving her gruel for breakfast and dinner and snapping at her if she tried to say anything. Worse than her mother’s rage, Yorda said, were the times when she kept her resentment quiet. She could burst at any time, and that was sure to happen tonight when Yorda returned home with a torn and bloody sleeve.

According to MS Word’s dictionary, “puffily” is not a word, but it should be — the adverb form of “puffy.”

I researched apple cider especially for this bit. You will see why I put effort into it later. A note: the cider could possibly have made her ill if it wasn’t pasteurized possibly, but I don’t think Ico would know or care about pasteurization so “he” (the biased narrator) didn’t mention it.

—

During lunch period on the first day back to school after Christmas Break, Ico waited expectantly for his friend in the courtyard. When she didn’t come, he went back into the hallway to check the clock. She was usually there within five minutes of class ending, carrying her tiny lunch in a plastic bag and greeting him with a shy smile. The clock hands went around and there was still no sign of her. It was very rare for her to miss a day of school; even when she was sick, her mother hated having her around during the day. She had already given Ico several colds from coming to school ill.

She was there the next day, looking tired and, if possible, more pale than usual, although her face was oddly flushed into an unpleasant pinkish pattern and her blue-violet eyes were puffily encircled by the same colour. She said she had been too sick to get out of bed the day before, but her mother made her come to school today rather than stay home twice in a row. She felt better today, she claimed. Her mother had been right to get her back up onto her feet.

Ico was doubtful. His parents would never let him leave the house looking as unsteady as she did. He hoped it was just a 24-hour bug or something else very temporary. When he got her to describe her symptoms, it sounded like the flu – a violent stomach sickness. But then he remembered his father having similar problems and the doctor thinking that it was caused by food poisoning. He asked her if she had eaten any eggs or chicken that might have been bad, although he doubted she ever ate those things. She confirmed his doubts, saying that she had had little more than warm gruel and cornbread lately – although her mother had allowed her a little apple cider over the holidays one time when she had friends over. She had taken it up to Yorda’s room after they left. Yorda smiled a little at the memory, recalling her first taste of the spicy drink.

Ico went back to assuming it was the flu. Apple cider should be harmless, unless maybe it was hard cider and the alcohol disagreed with her stomach. Yorda said she didn’t know; her mother hadn’t said anything about it, just that she had a special treat for her. Yorda seemed confused by her mother’s unusual behaviour, which saddened Ico. Affection, he believed, should not be the deviation from the norm.

The fan is from my elementary school. I could never figure out why it blew warm air in the cold — it seemed like a waste. The teachers wouldn’t let us stand on it. The courtyard, by the way, comes from a similar one in my high school.

PS: I remembered today that Yorda’s hair is light brown, not white. Durr. I’ve corrected it in the file.

—

December. The wind made everything twice as cold and Ico didn’t have a winter coat. Yorda had even less. Their city’s winters weren’t hard or even particularly cold compared to other places, but the wind still bit at bare skin.

He brought a hated sweater of his to school, an ugly wool thing from a second-hand store. They laughed at how funny it looked on her, baggy and comically short in the arms, but it was warm and she was grateful. He helped her climb on top of the big grated fan, which blew straight upwards, and they danced in the heated air. She gripped her dress tightly to keep it from blowing up above her waist, but a few times it did anyway and neither of them cared.

She skipped her English classes to join him on the fan and learn how to speak the language. Even though he was young, he made a good teacher because English was his second language too, and he remembered the struggles he’d had with it. She was an earnest, diligent student, slow but determined, and she made steady progress. Within weeks she was able to describe the most important part of her life: her mother.

To Yorda, she was God. To Ico, she was controlling almost to the point of abuse. Although the woman knew English, she refused to share any of that knowledge with her daughter, instead forcing Yorda to speak in only their native tongue. (Yorda was still not able to tell him, in English, what that language was.) Most of the time, she kept Yorda locked in her bedroom with no toys or comforts. Occasionally she would yank her out and dress her up for display when she had friends over. She brushed the girl’s hair fanatically and refused to let Yorda do it herself, saying she couldn’t do it well enough. She fed her as cheaply as possible, usually with gruel or potatoes, and sewed her a new dress only when her current one wore embarrassingly thin. When Yorda made a small mistake such as tripping when she walked or dropping a dish, she would belittle the girl until she ran out of tears.

Ico asked about her father. Yorda had never known of one since as far back as she could remember. She recalled asking her mother about it once, because all the other kids in school had fathers, and was answered with a slap and the sharp response: “I need no man.� She was still not sure what that meant.

Ico was familiar with strict parents and poverty, but his family was never cruel to him the way hers was. No wonder there was a cloud of hesitation around everything she did or said. The girl had grown up afraid her own shadow would rise up and smack her.

I’m really enjoying writing my ICO story. It would be easier to just create parallels and analogies to the game, like I considered doing with PoP: SoT, but analyzing their characters and transplanting them to a different environment is a far more interesting challenge. I’m replaying the game and paying careful attention to their dialogue and actions. The way Ico and Yorda move says a lot about them, I think; at any rate, there are all kinds of possibilities to be inferred from studying their presentation. So much is left to the imagination, but not so much that I feel like I’m creating entirely new characters, just exploring what’s given. What makes Ico decide to save Yorda — is it despite his status as the Rejected Other, or because he sees that aloneness in her as well? With how much compassion or pity was he treated back home? Why does Yorda follow him? How much does she trust him or come to care about him? What was it like for her to grow up, if that’s what happened, with her maybe-evil mother?

Ning remains uninterested in the game because he says it’s too simple and linear, although he admits it’s beautiful. We disagree in terms of gameplay, but I think the player is provided with plenty of information about the characters. The first few times I played it, Yorda wasn’t much more than a limited-AI sack to drag around and occasionally drop in places for puzzles. Now she seems like so much more. Why does she sometimes rush ahead through magic gates rather than hang behind and wait to be called? How much does she know about the castle and especially about herself? Why does she seem surprised when she uses her powers?

Anyhow, I’m having fun rambling through my story without planning everything out to the last detail like I did with Lost Time. If it turns into something presentable, that would be great, but for now I’m flattered that anyone would enjoy my speculative musings on an old game.

I have some ideas for what will happen later.

I feel like there are a lot of repeated words — white, pale, courtyard, stared, etc. That’s something I’ve always tried to avoid, particularly using the same descriptor twice in one chapter (although I have yet to figure out how I’ll section up this story). Does anyone else find that bothersome?

—

She left soon after, to go to class, he assumed. He stayed in the yard because class wasn’t important, and he had enough wits to know that no textbook could teach him about anything as significant as secret courtyards or peculiar pale girls or friendship.

~

He didn’t see her again for several weeks until one unusually warm day in November, when he found her huddled in a corner of the courtyard. With one arm she held her knees tightly to her chest, while the other hand obsessively stroked her hair.

For several seconds he deliberated staying or going before ultimately walking over to her and asking what was wrong. In response, she raised her head enough for him to see her wet, reddened eyes. Her long white hair fell in front of her face and she cried harder. When she bent her head back down, he finally noticed that a large piece in the back had been harshly cut off to less than half its length. He asked her what had happened.

She grabbed a chunk of the hair hanging in front of her face and mimed cutting it with the other hand, then went back to crying.

So they didn’t always leave her alone. Ico thought he knew who might have done it – the trendy girls who wore makeup and sometimes watched Yorda with hatred in their gaudily shadowed eyes. They were universally despised for their subtle cruelty and easy, spoiled lives.

He sat down beside her. “Those bitches.�

She looked at him with surprise and he wondered if she knew what the word meant. She was still clutching her hair. He tried to gently lower her arm. “It’s okay,� he attempted. “It will grow back.�

She shook her head quickly. “Mother…angry.�

“Well she shouldn’t be; it’s not your fault,� he declared. She just shook her head. But she had stopped crying.

They sat there in silence for a while longer. Yorda clearly had no interest in leaving the yard. Ico stayed with her, poking around the courtyard with a stick, looking for anything to alleviate his boredom. Finally they heard the dismissal bell. Yorda jumped up and ran out before it stopped ringing. Ico followed after a few minutes, neither in a rush to go home nor wishing to delay it.

~

The next day, he was climbing the lone evergreen tree in the courtyard when Yorda entered, part of her hair tied back to disguise the short section. She was carrying something. He dropped down, startling her and causing her to drop the object. It was a very old, battered paperback book. He squinted to see the cover but couldn’t make out the words. “Can I see?� he asked, sticking out his hand. She looked at his dirty palm for a moment before cautiously giving him the book.

The picture on the front was of an old castle under a grey sky. The words were in a language he couldn’t recognize; many of the letters weren’t even in the English alphabet. When he asked her what language it was, she shrugged and pointed to herself. “Japanese?� he guessed. She stared blankly, squinted her eyes as if thinking, and shook her head. “Umm…Ukrainian?� She shook her head again. He had never been good at geography or learned much about languages in school. Two languages were enough – one for home and one for school.

He noticed her staring very intently at the book, so he offered it back to her. She took it and thumbed through the pages until she found a particular spot and started reading.

“What’s it about?� he asked.

“Story,� she replied.

“What happens in it?�

She stopped reading and struggled for words for a minute before giving up and returning to the book.

“Is it an adventure?� he suggested.

“Not know.�

“You don’t know?�

“Don’t know,� she corrected herself.

He tried to think of the kind of books girls read. His little sister liked fantasy novels with dragons and magic. “Does it have magic?�

She repeated the word slowly. “Magic?�

“Yeah, like…fairies or wizards, magic spells. Stuff that doesn’t happen in real life.�

“Magic,� she said again.

“So it is about magic?�

She shrugged. “Don’t know magic.�

“Neither do I,� he said with a grin. She looked confused. “Never mind.�

After a few minutes of watching her read, he ventured, “Your hair looks better.� When he received a now-familiar blank stare, he pointed to her pale tresses. “Better…nicer…more good?�

“Good,� she said, showing a hint of a smile. “Mother fix.�

“Was she mad?�

Yorda nodded and rubbed the side of her face, wincing.

“She hit you?�

“Hit…yes.�

He nodded as well. Parental discipline was a fact of life. But his father never hit his little sister as much as he did Ico. He had become used to the unspoken law that girls were more fragile and needed protection as much as they did punishment. Looking at Yorda, that had never seemed truer. She was skinny and slow and shivered in the wispy white dress she always wore. Her feet were tucked under her because her thin white slippers did little to keep out rain or cold. She was the very picture of frailty, tall and awkward and graceless in her timid movements. An odd thought came into his head: if she were my daughter, I wouldn’t hit her.

I enjoyed the Japanese Super Safe Wii Safety Manual and these late additions. The comments on the actual manual made me laugh the loudest.

My dorm floor is decorating for Christmas. This means a lot of sparkly and shiny things flying about. I went holiday-crazy on my door:

and I bought a mini tree a little while ago. Those chocolates are a birthday/Christmas present for Ning’s mother. The card is from my oldest sister. The little cardboard house is from Swiss Chalet, and I have yet to eat the candy inside.

Now back to studying for tomorrow’s biology exam.

The school nurse eyed them as they came in, the boy supporting the girl with an arm around her shoulders. It was the kind of school where the staff knew the students’ social standings almost as well as the kids. So why, she wondered, should these two outcasts have found each other? The girl was several years older and neither had shown interest in ending their isolation before.

“She hurt her foot,� the boy explained.

The nurse nodded and took the girl’s hand free hand. “What’s your name, dear?�

Wide-eyed, the girl responded in a strange accent, “Yorda.�

“Yorda, that’s a very pretty name. Why don’t you come with me into the back here and we’ll see what’s the trouble?�

The boy stood uselessly near the door as the nurse led Yorda away, then he bolted, expecting never to see the pale girl again.

Sitting in his private courtyard the following day, he couldn’t have been more surprised when a tall white form limped into view from behind a tree. She clasped her hands together and nodded, by way of a greeting.

“Hello,� he replied.

“Yesterday,� the girl said, “the nurse. Thank you.� She bowed from the shoulders.

The boy shrugged and gave up trying to place her accent. Hungarian? Swedish? The other students thought she might be Dutch. Some of the girls whispered that she was a foreign princess who had somehow gotten left behind here, and was lost without her jewels and servants. “I’m Ico,� he said.

“Ico,� she repeated, and smiled, her eyes turning into little crescent-moon-slits. It was the first time he had ever seen her smile; her countenance was invariably tragic or frightened or both. This was a noticeably pleasant change. He smiled too.

Ning woke up and yelled at me in Chinese for a while before promptly going back to sleep. If he’s not going to translate, he could at least tell me why he’s glaring at me. What terrible white sin did I commit while he was sleeping?

I coaxed and cajoled Ning into trying ICO tonight. Earlier, I had a bit of an idea for fanfiction, and I managed to make my word quota for the first time in a while.

He had seen her in the hallways between classes or at lunch. Like him, she ate lunch alone. He had come across her once or twice, nibbling an apple in a quiet corner.

She was almost inhumanly pale. Her hair was as white as paper, and her skin nearly so. He had never felt more awkward in his dark Slavic skin with his dark home haircut. Muttering an apology, although he didn’t really know why, he stumbled away from her. She watched him curiously but did not rise or speak.

The other kids generally kept away from her. She was different, she was weird — they weren’t even quite sure she knew English. They avoided her, but they didn’t tease her like they did him — he was strange in ways they understood: he was short and awkward, he wore funny clothes, he didn’t always smell nice, he wasn’t particularly good at anything. He didn’t have friends so he didn’t make friends. He played by himself and he was okay with that.

His goal was to get through school until he was old enough to quit. By then he would have a job at the shoe plant where his father worked. He had grown up with the smell of hot rubber clinging to his father; it was what made his classmates squinch their noses when they caught it on him. His parents were immigrants; they didn’t have much, but they didn’t need much, and he was raised to be grateful.

There was one spot in the school that he liked: if you ducked through the janitor’s door when nobody was looking, another door led to a small courtyard where a giant fan for the furnace was kept. It was loud enough that you couldn’t hear anything, and the fan spewed warm air in winter. That was his favourite place to go to eat or to be alone.

It was a cold sunny day when he found her there, crouched in the soft overgrown grass. He felt a stab of irritation, injustice even, to see his secret place disturbed. But he couldn’t help but notice the glow her fantastically white skin seemed to give the air around her. He was about to turn and leave when he heard a whimper.

The girl was holding her ankle, which as he came closer he could see was swollen and ugly against the beautiful white. She looked up at him and tried to pull it in closer to her, but cried out from the pain.

“Are you alright?� he asked, feeling stupid. Of course she wasn’t alright; she was hurt. “What happened.�

Her eyes darted from him to her foot and back again several times before she whispered, “Fell.�

“You fell? Did you see the nurse?�

She shook her head.

“You should go see the nurse,â€? he said lamely, and was met with a stare. “Come on, I’ll help you.â€? He extended his hand, which she gazed at with some terror before shakily taking.